


The Hallowed and The Lost

by readergirl1013



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Equality, Gen, Memorials, Peace, Remembrance, Tolerance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:56:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readergirl1013/pseuds/readergirl1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It surprises him when he stumbles across it by accident. It is, to be honest, the last thing he expects to find in a land as devoted to science and hard facts as Atlantis is. But here he stands, at a door to a hall that is guarded ceremonially, but faithfully, by two men, solemn and firm in their duty.<br/>A story about tolerance and equality, and remembering those who fought for freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hallowed and The Lost

It surprises him when he stumbles across it by accident. It is, to be honest, the last thing he expects to find in a land as devoted to science and hard facts as Atlantis is. But here he stands, at a door to a hall that is guarded ceremonially, but faithfully, by two men, solemn and firm in their duty. There is an old piece of wood with a brightly painted inscription, in a color he cannot quite name, hung above the door, but to his surprise he cannot read it- it is not in a language he knows or recognizes; not in any Earth language, nor in any Milky Way language (which is to be expected), nor is it Ancient, or Athosian, or Satedan; all of which he has seen before. 

He will later learn that the sign is in the language of the Calabasi, a people who had been culled to extinction when the Ancients still ruled Pegasus; and had resided on the planet that has become the expedition’s (Atlantean’s, he reminds himself, they identify as Atlantean’s) vacation planet from what he could tell. Apparently the Calabasi had been close allies of the Ancients, a highly advanced and deeply spiritual people, who devoted all of their advancements to the study of religion, history, the arts, and philosophy. They had also developed something that the Atlantean’s call super-Teflon, a coating that the Calabasi had sprayed over signs and artwork and some of the wealthier people’s houses that preserved both the colors and the materials. 

The sign in the out of the way section of Atlantis apparently translates directly to “Land of Many Devotions” but colloquially meant the temple district of the old city. The Atlantean’s call the building many things- The Spiral, The Memorium, Church Street, The Conch, The Worship Center- all depending on what they prefer. The official name, however, is The Hallowed and the Lost, but he cannot tell why it is called so, when he first enters the building (he will find out later). Walking in he sees that the hall twists to the left, further in, and that it is at a slight angle upwards. On either side, once he gets to where the leftward twist is, he sees a door, both sides of which are open.

The door on the left opens into an empty shrine, a Shinto shrine, to his surprise, and he sees that the large room has been set up as a honden, just inside the entrance is a handmade torii. Just past the torii, to the right of the door he sees a wash basin, and surprisingly it is actually made of stone. Further in he can see an offering box and a bell hung above it, and a statue of a shishi in each corner of the room, and at the far end are the Three Shinto Regalia, while on the right is an Ema Stand, and on the left is an offering plate with the traditional rice, mochi, sake, salt and water- all there for the Kami, should they desire it. Looking around, something above him catches his eye, and he looks to see a Shimenawa rope tied above the door. He looks down, and smiles at the sight of two conical piles of salt on either side of the door, this is the most authentic Shinto Shrine he has ever been to outside of Japan, it even smells like a Shrine should, and he breathes in an aura of calm, that he has felt every other time he has visited a Shinto Shrine.

He looks at the door on the right, also open, and glances in, expecting to see one of the other Eastern religions temples, or maybe a mainstream western religion’s home within the city. Instead he finds that whatever religion is represented within, he has no knowledge of it. He stares in awe at the sight before him, at a room lit only by candles, thousands of them, spread around the room, at all different heights. The air is heavy with incense of a type he does not recognize. He sees the path through the candles and is inexplicably drawn forward, towards the intricately carved wooden altar at the front of the room. As he walks forwards, towards the clearing in the candles, he sees that there are beautiful and detailed hand woven tapestries along the walls, each one telling a story of a people he does not know. The ceiling has patterned fabric draped artfully upon it, and the room almost feels like it is a large tent. He reaches the clearing in the candles, and finds that there are prayer mats spread along the floor, and the altar is carved with images of what appears to be Ancients. 

Atop the altar is an ancient artifact and he idly wonders what its purpose is. He reaches out a hand to touch it, before quickly withdrawing it, almost fearfully, not wanting to activate anything potentially harmful (he does not consider the fact that this object has obviously been cleared for use merely by its location). He is startled when a hand comes out of the shadows to press against the artifact, and is caught between elation and disappointment when all that happens is an airy music beginning to play. He looks at the body connected to the hand, and is startled at the face of a young man, barely more than a teenager, staring at him curiously. “It is a music player.” The man says, “The recordings of the Ancestors’ favorite songs and artists.” He smiles, almost teasingly, “Consider it the Ancestors Greatest Hits,” his good humor is obvious. He explains that this is where ‘the Atlanteans of Athosian Heritage’ come for worship, and that he is the apprentice-Prayerkeeper. It is some time before he leaves; having much enjoyed the discussion with the young man, Wex. 

He continues along the upwards spiraling hall, passing a beautifully painted room that is obviously a Mosque, with several men and women inside saying their Asr prayers, facing a hand carved wooden mihrab, sure of both their devotion to Allah and their safety in the city. 

Across the hall is a Hindu Mandiram, filled with murtis, no set deity among them. There is no true mandapa, but the garbhagriha is clear. The altar is beautiful, made of wood, with multiple levels, and lovingly carved with devotions, the tops of each level tiled in a mosaic. There are oil lamps hung around it and a puja tray overfilled with offerings, and a ghanta at the entryway.

Further upwards is a Catholic Church, complete with sacristy, apse and altar, chancel, and pews filling up the nave. There is a crucifix upon the wall above the altar, and the glass at the window looks to have been replaced by a depiction of The Ascension of Christ. Along the back wall is a single confessional. He briefly wonders if there is a Church for every major Christian denomination, before pushing the thought aside and continuing on his way.

Across from the Catholic Church is a Jewish Synagogue. There at the front is a bimah, and behind it is the ark, closed now, but big enough to hold at least three Torah, covered with a beautifully embroidered parochet. There is a sanctuary lamp, lit of course, hanging above the bimah, and a large Menorah with unlit candles stands to the right of the bimah. There are benches facing the front, and a cabinet on the back wall that he can only guess holds items necessary for specific rituals and holidays.

He continues upwards, and around, marveling at the feat of engineering inherent in the construction of this building. At the next level up is the entrance into a Buddhist Temple, complete with Stupa, and a large carved wooden Triratna, Dharma Wheel, and statue of Buddha. Across the way is a room dedicated to a religion he does not recognize- but the room has a Middle Eastern flair, with what appears to be an extremely large goblet with flame decorations in the middle, on the far wall is a mural of a man’s head, arms and body, and a bird’s wings, tails and claws. It looks like a drawing straight from a book on Mesopotamia, and he struggles briefly for a name, before remembering that it is called a Faravahar. 

Further up is a room with obviously Native American influences, and an Eastern Orthodox Church he recognizes from attending services with a friend when he was a child. There is a room painted all in shades of green, with cushions to kneel on for prayers, and a large sign in a script he recognizes as Satedan; further up there is also a Jain Derasar he recognizes from past trips to India, a beautiful statue of the mulnayak presiding. 

He pauses briefly at a room straight out of Haiti, a perfect Hounfour, complete with a Mambo who smiles beatifically at him from in front of an altar filled with offerings. As he returns her nod he wonders briefly if it is a room reserved purely for Vodou, or if it is shared between the various Afro-American religions. His question is answered two stories up by the presence of a “Rastafarian Spiritual Center” according to the sign on the wall inside the room presiding over a circle of chairs. He pointedly ignores the scattered ash trays and lingering scent of cannabis.

Before coming to the Rastafarian center he had passed by a Protestant-style Church, a Taoist temple, and two obviously non-Earth worship centers- one is entirely filled with un-known plants, sculpted into a maze of sorts, and in the center is a statue; the other is empty except for a single statue that looks vaguely like Jar Jar Binks (if he had teeth like a T-Rex, and six inch claws on his fingers and toes).

Upwards he goes, past rooms dedicated to African religions, Asian religions, Sikhism, the Baha’i Faith. He passes a room that looks to be dedicated to the ancient Norse Gods and others to the Celtic, Greek, Roman and Egyptian pantheons. There is a room with a blood-stained altar and Caribbean decor, and he really hopes that they are only sacrificing chickens. He sees what looks to be a store-room, and wonders which religion uses it, and later learn it is for those who prefer to worship outdoors among nature to keep their sacred artifacts safely. There are countless rooms that are dedicated to religions from around the Pegasus Galaxy, whose people either live in or visit Atlantis frequently.

He is numb, almost to the point of shock. He does not know what to think of this- it is so far beyond his ken. When he finally comes to a level that has its doors sealed, it takes a moment to register that he is staring blankly at a closed door. Unable to help his curiosity he palms open the door and is dismayed to see an empty room, closing the door behind him, he goes to look into the room across from it to see more of the same. Continuing upwards he tries the doors at the next few levels to find them all empty and waiting. He stops trying them after the fifth level of empty doors, and continues to walk upwards, still trying to wrap his head around it all. Floor after floor of empty rooms, rooms he figures are simply waiting for enough peoples to arrive in the city and request a space in the tower for their religion, go by before he comes to a level that appears to be populated.

He is startled beyond belief when he sees two little girls go walking by, giggling outrageously, holding hands, neither one older than twelve. The one on the right is clearly of Middle Eastern descent, her hair covered by a hijab; on the left the girl looks to be of Nordic ancestry, but her hair is in intricately braided with bright ribbons, and her clothes are something he’s never seen before- a white tunic to her knees, with delicate burnt orange, red and purple embroidery, and a pair of tight burnt orange leggings tucked into ankle high boots, an elaborate brocade corset of burnt orange, red and purple at her waist. He takes a moment, trying to place the clothes, before realizing that she must be from another world. They are followed by a dozen or so more children, in a myriad of clothing styles, ranging from one boy’s polo shirt and jeans, to another that appeared to be wearing only a homespun breechcloth. Trailing behind them, wearing an indulgent smile is an elderly Catholic Priest. As he walks past the Father nods at him, and he nods back.

Looking up he sees the door which the Father and children must have just exited, has a sign hanging next to it; “Religious Studies- Leave Your Bias At The Door.” Peering in he sees that the room is now populated by early teenagers, all looking intently at the middle-aged Priestess (he guesses at her title), with an elaborate headpiece that honestly puts him in mind of the Chiquita Banana ads, piled high with fruits, and dressed in bright sarong and camisole. 

He wonders what planet she’s from, and considers going in to listen to her lecture, before the sign beside the door across the hall catches his eye, it reads: “Library of Religious Texts”. His mind made up he enters the room, before stopping and staring in awe. The large room is filled with bookshelves that reach to the ceiling, all filled with texts. Entering he sees that there are two tables for research, and several specialty cases to preserve ancient and fragile texts, there is even bookcases made specifically for stone tablets and scrolls. He is startled from his awe by a genteel British voice asking, “Can I help you?” At his mute headshake, the man offers him a soft smile, “Did you know, sir, that this library holds over five thousand religious texts from more than one thousand planets? Granted, a large portion of those are from Earth, but most are from a variety of Pegasus planets- many of which have been culled to extinction. If you are interested in seeing the artifacts of various planets whose people have been culled, there is a museum on the West Pier. Do let me know if you have any questions.”

He spends a good hour in the Library, pulling down a translation of the Tapas of the Vanrinians to look over one minute, and the Upanishads of India the next, and there is the Book of Origin, and the Khalalgharsas of the Brengasicas, and he is flitting from one text to another. Finally though he pulls himself away from the library, bidding the British man a goodbye before he continues on his way. The next pair of rooms he comes across seems to share a purpose, with a sign hanging proudly from the ceiling above proclaiming them both as “Community Centers,” with one seeming to be dedicated to adults, and the other for children.

He passes them, idly glancing inside, before continuing onwards and upwards. It is at the entrance to the next level that, for the first time, there is a difference in the layout, and he realizes that he is almost at the top of the tower, over three hundred stories up, taller than any building on Earth. He stops and looks at the door ahead of him, another pair of solemn soldiers standing guard, and wonders what is lying ahead. The two guards ignore him, standing stiffly at attention, letting him collect his thoughts. When he moves forwards, the guard on the left moves to open the door, telling him quietly, “Please be quiet and respectful while in the Heavens Floors, sir. The designation of each of the top floors is posted at your right.”

He nods, and walks through the doors, hearing them shut behind him. In front of him is a door and to his left is another door and he feels nervous and hesitant in a way he rarely has before. He glances to his right and sees the sign. The floor he currently stands on is called “The Lost,” the topmost floor is entitled “The Lands Lost.” And suddenly he understands, just exactly what these top two floors are, and he hesitates, not sure if he wants to go in and face this. After a moment, he sucks it up and pushes open the door.

The room takes up the entire floor, and the only way up to the next level is behind him, the pathway there lying beyond a separate door. He looks around, and the first thing he notices is that the walls are lined with photographs, each one with a plaque beneath it. He turns to look at the nearest one, almost expecting what he will see, and is still surprised. It is an image of Colonel Marshall Sumner, in full dress uniform, his chest bedecked with ribbons. It is a large image, probably almost three feet tall, and two feet wide. Below it is a name plate that reads, “Colonel Marshall Sumner, United States Marine Corps,” followed by his date of birth and death; and below the name plate are two smaller frames. One holds the image of a younger Sumner, in civilian clothes, holding a little girl and with an arm around a young woman- the little girl had Sumner’s smile. The frame on the right holds a pair of worn dog tags. The dark metal plaque below all three frames is engraved, “A True Leader and Hero Who Sacrificed Himself to Protect His Planet from the Wraith”. Looking down he sees a pair of black field boots, a rifle placed inside the right one, and a helmet hanging from the butt of the rifle, and there is a votive candle directly between the toes of the boots. He knows that none of these items had actually belonged to the colonel, that his body and effects had not been able to be recovered, only his tags; but it is still a poignant sight, one he has seen a hundred times before on Earth, but still moves him to this day.

The next photo is actually a portrait, of a man in homespun and leather. His nameplate reads “Toran Billagan of Athos,” followed by a birth date and a death date that is the same as Sumner’s. The two smaller frames below the portrait hold a string of beads, and a small discus. His plaque reads “May He Find Peace and Serenity in the Arms of the Ancestors.” Instead of boots, a rifle and a helmet; there is a carved wooden pole, almost like a totem pole on the ground beneath his portrait, and another votive candle.

Following along the outside edges, he looks at photo after photo, with the occasional portrait mixed in, of men and women who gave their lives for the city he now stands in. Sometimes an image will catch his eye, like the portrait of a girl who looks to be in her mid to late teens, dressed in homespun and leather, smiling broadly; or the picture of a man in an expedition science uniform, a smug grin on his face; or a smaller image of two men in desert fatigues, arms around each other’s shoulders. Some of the pictures are obviously the official photographs, pulled from their files; others are set at various locations throughout the city and the galaxy. 

At other times, the inscriptions on the plaques will draw his attention; such as Sergeant Markham’s, which reads “A Marine Infantryman who Died a Pilot, Fearlessly Defending the City from the Wraith” or Dr. Stephen Collins, “He Lost his Life, in the Pursuit of Knowledge that Could Have Changed the Universe.” Some of the natives and scientist’s images are marked with boots, rifle and helmet; like the soldiers- and he comes to realize that this means they had lost their life in battle; others, like Dr. Lydia Dumais’ are marked by a symbol of their science, or culture. Each one has a small, lit votive candle in front of it.

Some of the dates of death are repeated over and over, others are listed but once. He circles the room, choked up. There are hundreds of images, all of them people lost in defense of a single city, and sadly there is space left open for hundreds more. Towards the end of his circumference of the gallery, he finds another section, filled with photographs. There is a large plaque near the ceiling, that reads “The Missing”, and several hundred 12” by 12” photographs underneath. It is a horrifying thing to see, to have things he has only ever read before as numbers and statistics in reports, laid out as photographic reality.

He turns to the center of the room to avoid the sight, where there is a gleaming white statue of four figures rising from one pedestal- votive candles, flowers and other offerings encircle the base. Nearing it he studies the figure facing towards the door; it is a late middle-aged woman dressed in a simple dress, that could be from either Pegasus or Earth, she has on a necklace with a pendant, bracelets and several rings, her hair is pulled into a bun. In all honesty she looks like a mother-figure, and seems to exude maternity. There is an inscription at her feet, and leaning in a bit he reads, “For All Who Died Before, Who Made Us What We Are Today.” Suddenly he is forcibly reminded of his own mother, singing as she baked; his grandfather’s hands atop his, showing him how to cast a fishing pole; his best friend from high school, grinning as he handed over a cigar he’d snuck from his father’s office; and he knows deep down, that who he is today is in thanks to those who had come before him; that his best friend’s death, his mother’s, his grandfather’s and so many more, have made him the man he is.

Moving to the figure on his right, he sucks in a deep breath. This figure is of a beautiful little girl, smiling, her curls tumbling across her face. She is in a lotus position, her hands resting palm up on either knee. She is wearing a long dress, and over-dress, and has bracers on each wrist. On closer inspection, he sees that her smile is knowing, and the look on her face seems to say that she knows the secrets he’s never told. He shifts uneasily under the look. Looking down he sees that even the inscription is cryptic, “For Our Ancestor’s That Fought, And For Those That Seek and Find Enlightenment”. He tilts his head, and idly wonders if the artist is Buddhist or Hindu.

He continues to circle the statue, and stops, startled. This image is radically different than the first two. The statue of the man radiates fury, resentment, desperation and futility; it seems to be consumed by hatred that is overwhelming it. He is snarling, a feral look in his eyes, ready to meet all comers. His clothes are made to look like worn leather, and they are ripped and mended in various places. He has a strange and alien arm ornament around his forearm, and a wrist band below it, the other arm is clad in a leather bracer. Both of his hands hold wicked looking knives, ready to be used. He is, to put it simply, a predator. Looking down at the inscription at the base he reads, “For Those That Run and Those That Fight”, and wonders what it could possibly mean. Still wondering at the cryptic words at the base of the primal man, he circles to see the last of the four figures.

The fourth figure makes him swallow harshly. It is a soldier, rifle slung over his right shoulder. His flag patch is blank, and his combat uniform a generic one that could have come from any number of countries since there is no distinguishing marks on it; except he sees, that is not true. On his right arm, clearly visible, is the Atlantis Expedition Symbol. The man is solemn, mournful, and weary with his head turned slightly toward the side with a thousand-yard stare. He can almost see the dirt that is smeared into the soldier’s skin and clothes, and his face seems to have a sheen of sweat. He is bitter, weary, and fatigued- but his back is straight, his head is high, and he seems to give off an aura of steely determination. The statue looks just as every soldier at war that he has ever seen has; tired, serious, mourning, and bitter, but filled with strength and fortitude unmatched by any. He looks into the statue-soldier’s eyes, and sees his Uncle, broken from Normandy; his brother who still wakes up screaming from Vietnam; his nephew who looks at the world through hollow eyes. He blinks back tears, and looks down, wondering who the statue is modeled on, as he reads the inscription, “For Any Who Were Once of Us, And Perished Elsewhere After Our Parting”. He realizes then that this figure is for those who had once called Atlantis home, and lost their lives in another place and time, and he wonders how many there are.

It takes him a few moments to compose himself, to attempt to put the echoing sorrow of the memorial behind him. It does not work, taking a deep breath and exiting the room the way he entered, he glances at the directional sign, and steals himself. He goes through the door that leads up to the floor known as “The Lands Lost” and nearly has his breath stolen away. The path to the next floor does not circle the inside of the tower, like all of the levels before, but the outside. The view is spectacular, literally breathtaking, picturesque towers, stretching up into the sky around him, silver and blue, shining under an alien sun. The ocean beyond the towers is crystalline, sparkling like diamonds beneath a cloudless sky. He circles upwards slowly, enjoying the panoramic view, allowing it to chase away some of the resonant grief that the room below has brought upon him.

Coming upon the door that will open upon the floor known as “The Lands Lost” he wonders what new horrors he will see. Bracing himself, and swallowing almost convulsively, he pushes back his nerves and enters the room.

Looking around himself, he sees that the walls are covered with thick burnt red stone panels, with words carved and gilded into them, that he is too far away to see, but as he turns to the one closest to him on his left he sees that it is a list, from the top of the panel, at the twelve foot ceiling height, to the bottom, inches from the floor. Each letter is about two inches high, and each panel holds three columns of words. The words, though, are horrific to look at, because he knows that each one represents a world culled to extinction, peoples decimated by the many dangers of the Pegasus Galaxy.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he studies the names of these lost worlds. Some are the actual names of the planets, he recognizes Athos, Sateda, Anava, names he has read in mission reports; others are the galactic coordinates and designations given by the Atlantean’s to a world no one remembers the name of any longer, like M9S-475. Looking around the room, he has to blink back tears from his eyes once more; there are hundreds of thousands of planets listed. He walks along the outside of the empty room, a name here or there catching his eye- Olesia, Gravrian, Taranis, and Genii’a. He pauses when he comes to an area where there is a missing panel- and promptly has to swallow back bile. Where the panel is missing, is instead a wall of photos, and each photo shows a world that has been ravaged, razed and burned into nothing more than the barest rubble, some of the more horrifying images are of the actual destruction occurring. Cities that once held grand towers like New York and Chicago, their tops seared off and the remains overgrown and crumbling to dust, slowly being reclaimed by nature; small towns that were still burning; a village and Stargate being swallowed by lava; a horrible image of a mother and two small children in the process of being culled by a bright white light, the dart visible above; the nightmare image of a Wraith with its feeding hand reaching towards the photographer, a malicious smile on its face; a small girl digging through rubble, the rest of her village smoldering and empty in the background.

He chokes back his horror, staring at these images that tell of an entire galaxy’s reality for the last ten thousand years. He has no words, no thoughts that can encompass this. His eyes search the images, trying desperately to find something, anything to explain the repulsive reality he is looking at. There is none.

He finally forces himself to tear his eyes away from the image of a Wraith with its feeding hand outstretched, marching towards a boy who could be no older than seven, paralyzed in fear. He walks past another series of panels, the surface covered in planet’s names. He keeps trying to tell himself that he already knew of the devastation that has been the sole reality of an entire galaxy for ten thousand years; but a picture is worth a thousand words.

He has to spend almost a minute steeling himself before he can even look at the next wall of photos, but when he does he nearly breathes out a sigh of relief. This wall holds no images of the dead and dying, the horrors of a culling. Instead it seems to be filled with pictures of stiff-jawed, solemn and devastated looking small groups of people in various styles of dress. He looks at the photos for a while, not understanding the significance of the images, until one in particular catches his eye. It is an image of the little girl he saw earlier- blonde hair in elaborate braids, ribbons twisted up in it, the white tunic, leggings and ornate corset. She is surrounded by seven others, all women in similar clothes, the oldest looks to be about forty, and the youngest is a toddler girl, her hand holding onto the girl he had seen earlier, who looks to be about six in the image. Not a single one of them is smiling, and after a moment he realizes why. Behind them are the ruins of a village that once probably housed over one thousand people, and the buildings he could see standing remind him of an alpine village he had visited in his youth.

His stomach drops, and he looks again at the images- a dozen people in front of burnt out tents; twenty or so people in front of the remains of an approximately nineteenth century town; fifty people standing on a world that has been burned to ashes, the young man he’d met earlier, Wex, among them; a single pre-teen girl in front of an empty village, beginning to be overgrown with weeds; a relatively modern city that once housed hundreds of thousands, crumbling to the ground, a few hundred people standing in front of it; three hollow-eyed, dark-skinned children, two of them clutching dolls, standing on a desert world, the ruins of a hundred mud-brick huts behind them. These are not just pictures of groups of people from different worlds- these are the handfuls of survivors from ruined worlds.

Continuing around the room he stares at panel after panel of planets lost, and walls of photos that alternate between the occurrence of the appalling events that shattered these worlds, and the few remaining survivors, where there are any survivors at all. It is a nightmare that is reality. The last few sections of panels are blank, waiting for the names of more worlds destroyed to be etched into them. 

Stepping off the path that circles the outside of the room, he makes his way to the center of the room. Stopping, he cranes his head back, and looks up at the head of the statue, and sees that its lips are pulled back into what almost looks like a snarl, and fire blazes in its eyes. The pedestal of the towering statue declares it to be “Pegasus Triumphant” and the statue displays that sentiment beautifully, in burnt red and black swirled stone. The equine is rearing back, and looks as if it is about to burst into flight, its wings spread wide. The detail in the statue is phenomenal, it is a masterpiece that could rival any Auguste Rodin or Michelangelo, and he wonders who created this magnum opus.

After several long minutes studying the statue, the depiction of an entire galaxy’s struggles and battles against all that oppress it, he tears himself away, only to have his eyes catch on an image he had missed before, and wishes he had missed this time. He walks over to it in a trance, his eyes glued to the scene depicted. The scene shows two children, a boy of about seven or eight, and a girl of about three or four, with the boy protectively in front of the small girl. They were obviously siblings, from what he can see; the same sandy brown hair, blue-grey eyes, and button noses covered in what he thinks are freckles. But it is difficult to tell what are freckles and what is blood spatter. The little boy’s chest is blown apart, his entire left side missing between armpit and hip and blood pools below him, his eyes stare blankly towards his sister. The little girl, just a baby really, is missing the top right part of her skull, her hair matted with blood and the wall behind her covered with brain matter and bone fragments. She has a second hole in her gut, which is partly covered by her brother’s body. She is lying in such a way that her eyes are staring at the cameraman, and her hand is still holding on to the back of her brother’s shirt.

He swallows convulsively; trying to choke back tears, and realizes he has failed miserably when he feels the moisture on his cheeks. His fingers reach out and unconsciously brush over the ruined faces of both children, cast into paper for all eternity to see the horror of their deaths. He is suddenly overwhelmed. Falling to his knees, he lets out a shaky sob, tears streaming down his face; he has never seen horrors like this, never imagined them in his worst nightmares. He is surrounded by death and destruction in a way he never has been before, and he has no idea what to do.

“His name was Cartuse, and his sister was Amia. He had celebrated his eighth birthday three days before. Amia would have been four the next month. They were bright, intelligent, happy children, and Cartuse had an amazing aptitude for mathematics. Amia wanted to be a healer when she grew up. They were orphans- their father killed off-world in a culling on a trade mission, and their mother the year before in a similar manner. They were from a fairly advanced world called Manoli, which has been caught up in an on-again off-again civil war for the last thirty years. Three years ago the civil war became genocidal- the ruling Varali Clan determined to wipe out the Desali Clan.” 

He swallows, not turning around to look at the speaker, as he wipes his tears away.

The speaker continues, his voice sorrowed, and he seems to be lost in memories. “We spoke to the remaining members of the Desali Clan, and asked what they would like us to do to aid them, over half their number had already been killed. They asked us to help them get through the Varali controlled Stargate to relocate to a new home. We agreed and made a deal with the Varali rulers. The Varali, however, did not hold up their end of the deal, and attacked the refugee’s as we were relocating them. They lost another fifteen or so people and we lost one man. After traveling through multiple ‘gates we finally arrived on the new Desali home world. 

“Over the next year we helped them set up a town, complete with orphanage and medical clinic, sown fields and a mill. We even set up a school where our people could go and guest lecture to supplement the children’s education. I used to teach math. Then one day, about a year later a few marines, two scientists and I show up to visit, give Cartuse his birthday present, help with the harvest, and teach a few lessons. 

“We walked into a massacre, it was like being back in Rwanda again- bodies piled up to rot, or left to lie where they landed. There were no survivors. We took the photos so that we could bring the Varali to trial with the Coalition of Planets. We found out who had given away their location- a trader from Solen who was disgruntled because one of the women wouldn’t sleep with him. He was executed by the Coalition. 

“So was every Varali Clan member who were behind the genocide- which was basically every one of the clan leaders. Over one hundred people were executed for crimes against humanity. The Coalition’s laws are largely cribbed from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which we offered them as a courtesy; and the consequences for violating them are extremely harsh, as is typical in Pegasus. Those who were not executed were scattered to various Coalition Planets and are being re-educated and absorbed into their new planet’s culture. Manoli has been rendered inaccessible by removing the Stargate- its currently in orbit around the planet. 

“It’s a horrible image, but then, this is a room of horrible images. I could tell you the story behind each one, if you’d like, but I doubt you would want to hear it. That’s why this room and the one below were created though. Because as much as Earth promises to “Never Forget” they always do, and it is my hope that the Heaven’s Floors might help Pegasus to remember all that has been lost.” The speaker finishes.

“Who designed the Heaven’s Floors?” He questions, still kneeling on the ground, but turning to look at the speaker.

“I did,” the man replies, “None of the artwork is mine, but I laid out the idea and designed both floors.”

He is offered a hand and takes it, gladly accepting the help up- his knees are not what they used to be. He considers the simple statement, turning it over in his head. Before asking the question he has been wondering for a while now.

“Why?” At the startled look he waves a hand, “No, not why remember the fallen soldiers and worlds, but why all of this- the temples and the statues and these photos.” Despite his best effort, his horror is evident in his voice.

“Because, Sir, the one thing I’ve seen repeated, over and over, no matter the planet or the galaxy, is that the one thing most likely to cause death and destruction is intolerance. On Earth you see it in the Middle East, in Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Sudan, in every country in existence. You see it across the Milky Way and Pegasus. As many planets as have been lost to the Wraith, almost as many have been lost by internal conflict or interplanetary conflict. It’s sickening, Sir. Did you know that when Sateda fell, it was at the brink of civil war? That the Genii government has been overthrown seventeen times in the last century? That Manaria and Laronis have been at war for over four hundred years, and have lost more people to the war than they have their last ten culling’s combined? That the Hoffan’s decimated their own population by forcing them all to take experimental injections, and then attempted to weaponize it in order to “help” other worlds? The Coalition had to remove their access to a Stargate, because they refused to stop. 

“Intolerance is a disease that needs to be eradicated if we will ever stand a chance of defeating the Wraith. And I realize that I’m a hypocrite, Sir, for my hatred of the Wraith, but to be honest they’re all sociopaths that think we’re food- they cannot be reasoned with and refuse to even attempt to find an alternate food source. They have oppressed and terrorized this galaxy for ten thousand years. In order for peace to prevail between the humans and any other benevolent sentient species in Pegasus, the Wraith need to be gone- and to accomplish that we need, Pegasus needs to stop the infighting.

“The floor below is to commemorate all who gave their lives in defense of this mission, this City, this Galaxy, in an attempt to free it from ten thousand years of oppression. This floor, Sir, is to memorialize all those that have been oppressed, terrorized, plagued and outright annihilated by any oppressors, whether it is the Wraith, the Asurans, another planet or people, or even Mother Nature. It’s to showcase the end result of oppression and intolerance- a hollow man, a broken woman, a ruined child, a world lost to the sands of time. I designed this tower to enforce equality, every room for the various temples, churches and shrines is the exact same size, and they were all given an equal budget to build what they needed. The children attend classes about every religion and culture represented in Atlantis, and we have regular guest speakers from off-world. Adults are encouraged to take continuing education classes, in any subject; and the children attend mandatory Language Arts, Historical and Cultural Studies, Mathematics, Sciences, Foreign Language, Art, Music, Theater, Religious Studies and Self Defense Classes; and classes are taught by scholars and professors from more than a dozen planets. There are optional supplementary courses, or in depth ones to promote interests. We are a child of Earth, of a sort, but like any child we strive to become more than, and do better than our parents.” 

The shrug that follows is eloquent, and his speech is articulate and impassioned. He had found himself nodding along several times in agreement. He is surprised at the lengthy discourse; he had heard that the man before him is rather laconic. In the end, he simply clears his throat and looks the man straight in the eyes, sizing him up. He is a soldier, through and through, despite his current civilian clothes; weary and cynical, yet sincere and resilient, with determination and a steel spine. He is a man of honor, and principles, and holds himself (and those around him) to high moral standards. 

He surprises himself, by offering the man a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Colonel.”

The man takes it, after a brief pause, in a strong grip, his hands rough with the calluses of a man who works for a living. “And you, Sir.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job here, I’m quite impressed.” He pauses, considering his words, before deciding to push ahead, “I believe that it might be time for Earth to cut her apron strings.”

“Sir?” 

“You said that Atlantis was like a child of Earth, I believe that it should become an adult. I feel that it is time for Atlantis to be independent of Earth. I will be discussing this with a number of others, but I believe that between a few close allies and me, we can make it official. The IOA will simply be relegated to being an advisory council. We’ve been considering implementing a plan like this at some distant point in the future, but I believe it would be best served to do so now. You are correct Colonel, about much of what you said, and I wish you great success in this endeavor.”

After a few moments of stunned silence, much less than he has been expecting actually, the Colonel looks at him critically, and asks, “About supplies, Sir? And reinforcements?”

“Write up a trade agreement like you would for any other planet, send me a preliminary and my allies and I will hash out a reply, and so on and so forth until we reach an agreement. You will be considered a free and independent nation, and may make your own decisions on that front.”

“And our current IOA civilian administrator? And the other IOA appointees, Sir?”

“They will be recalled, the government structure will be left up to you, but I’d pick something that can grow with your population. Preferably a democratic or republican form of government; I’d prefer not to have to explain to my allies why you went and became Dictator of Atlantis.”

The Colonel snorts in reply, “Not in my plans, Sir.” 

The Colonel looks at him thoughtfully, but it feels like he is being studied down to the molecular level. His gaze is laser-like, cold and calculating. The man looks relaxed, but he can tell that if it is called for he can spring into action at any moment. Then the Colonel nods, and the tension in the air feels like it has been popped like a balloon. He blinks, and decides then and there that anyone who is fool enough to get on the Colonel’s bad side deserves everything that happens to them.

He reaches out his hand, and notices again the Colonel’s minute pause and flinch, wondering at it, before the man reaches forward confidently to shake his hand.

“In that case, Colonel Sheppard, I truly hope you are successful in creating a world that is free of prejudice and intolerance, and in ridding the Pegasus Galaxy of its oppressors.” 

“So do I, Sir, so do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a self-challenge story I wrote for International Tolerance Day- November 16, 2013. May all of your lives be free of prejudice and persecution.


End file.
